Of Oak and Ash
by BMIK
Summary: Sometimes Sherlock is full of surprises, and one of his favourite things is surprising John Watson. Sherlock/John
1. Chapter 1

After much anticipation, I now present the first chapter of a new WIP co-written with the truly wonderful Kikislasha!

**Of Oak and Ash**

Chapter One: Modulating Metersauthors: kikislasha and BMIK**  
**fandom: BBC Sherlock**  
**chapter rating: pg**  
**word count: 1600

Summary: Sometimes Sherlock is full of surprises, and one of his favourite things is surprising John Watson.

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**Chapter I - Modulating Meters**

Abrupt silence from the computer keyboard.

"If I were to say: 'the woods decay, the woods decay and fall,' what would that mean to you?" Sherlock's deep baritone was clipped, but playful.

John looked up from his newspaper and gave his flat mate a long look. Then his focus was back on the reports of ordinary murders, messed up world politics and boring local news.

"I'd say it means that you are in a rather poetic mood today. Which I find amusing...and alarming." With another, slightly mocking look at Sherlock John turned an uncooperative page of The Times, shook out the wrinkles and reached for a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up from the screen of his laptop, a corner of his lip curled in approval.

"But surely one can do no harm reciting poems."

With a sigh John turned another page. The little hairs on the back of his neck tingled and that was a sure sign that something was up. John felt as if he was sliding into one of Sherlock's traps again-something was going on and he didn't know what it was, but he would stumble through this conversation as best he could.

"Surely," he finally replied, trying to sound as if he didn't care, but inwardly John was curious what witty observation Sherlock would pull off now. As frustrated as he sometimes got with Sherlock's brilliant intellect it also amazed him. Sherlock looked at him-that is, studied and stared unabashed-for a long moment before taking a sharp breath in as he stood from his supine position on the chesterfield.

"Boring. You're missing the point." He swatted at the corner of John's newspaper as he neared. "Did you know the simplest commands in our culture are made up of these patterns of stressed syllables? It is in our very nature to say: 'Go to bed, eat your food, watch out, come here, do this, not that!' From nothing but a heightened state of emotion." Sherlock drifted across the sitting room, leaned on the mantlepiece and started picking at the skull's ocular cavity.

John had another example of the stressed pattern: 'Shut up,' but he remained silent. One of them had to be the adult here. Instead, he folded his paper, put it next to his tea cup and propped his chin on two fingers as he watched his restless friend poke the dead head in the eye.

"That's interesting..." John found he sounded relatively genuine. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"See what you just did demonstrates a 'spondee,' where extra syllables may be stressed on top of the regular structure, describing a different state of heightened emotion. It's quite a predictable indicator of human mood." Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye as a long finger traced along the skull's brow. "And the majority of the population don't even know they're doing it." His smile asked _did you know?_ in that rather annoying way of his. John tilted his head and knitted his brows, as if he was straining to listen to faint music.

"So, what does my...'spondee' tell you about my mood then?" he finally asked, just the tiniest bit waspish, resigned that Sherlock had him, again. Was there anything the man didn't know? Apart from the fact that the moon revolved around the earth and other basic knowledge of the solar system...

"Too easy, John." But that wouldn't stop him, obviously. "You're in quite a relaxed position, so largely, one would argue that your mood itself was not anything exceptional. But that for the presence of more metered speech, there is a much more provocative emotional connection than your posture would allow. Due to the utterly abysmal headlines in the news today, it cannot be caused by any allegiance to any issues of morality-which the posture of your hurt shoulder indicates, where your army training shows, by the way-but more of duty. Oh, John…" Sherlock's smile turned mischievous, "You don't suffer through my deductions of you as a chore, do you?" He laughed shortly. "But I suppose I should be flattered, since it would mean that you are responding to _my _influence, and since you have yet to flare your nostrils, I'd say you find it charming as opposed to alarming." He grinned.

John needed a moment to follow Sherlock's argumentation. Then he needed another moment to decide whether he should be annoyed and irritated that Sherlock was showing off again-or laugh and take it in stride. Inevitably he went with the latter. Even though Sherlock could get on his nerves like no one else it was also hard to stay mad at him. Indeed, he had his own peculiar charm. Shaking his head, John reached for his tea to take a sip and then leaned back in his favorite chair.

"You seem in a good mood today. Got a new case?"

Sherlock's expression hardened minutely and he hummed.

"Lestrade had an issue connecting his lead witness in a fraud case with the perpetrator, but that is only expected of him. Nobody interesting has been murdered in weeks. So no, no new case." He said slowly and bitterly.

"That's a shame." John said sympathetically. Then realized what he had just said, and cleared his throat, patting the newspaper. "Anyway, nothing interesting in the papers either. I suppose it will be a quiet Sunday evening then. Haven't had that in a while. Got any plans?" he tried to cheer his friend up. Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow: _I just said I didn't have a case. Of course I don't have plans._

John didn't have a problem reading the silent message. He sat up straight in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.

"Well then, why don't we go out? The weather's still kind of nice. At least it isn't raining." Which was something for London.

John didn't expect an answer, and was beginning to think of what they might need from the shops, as he'd probably want to run a few errands if Sherlock was just going to be lazing around or running experiments.

"Alright." Sherlock pushed off the mantlepiece towards the front door.

"Alright?" Startled, John followed him. Sherlock agreeing to change his daily schedule was about as rare as a clean countertop, and just as noteworthy. "Alright." He caught up and grabbed his coat

On their way out they passed by Mrs. Hudson who just came up to bring them a tray of fresh tea. She looked no less surprised when John informed her that they were going out as he hurried after Sherlock who lead the way with determined, long strides as if he were on a mission. Outside, John finished zipping up his coat, had a look left and right down Baker Street and put his hands deep into his pockets. It was a bit chilly

"So. Where do we go?"

"Yes, you didn't seem prepared for that eventuality." Sherlock stated with a grin, his attention on the street as he hailed a cab. He didn't acknowledge the chill, his coat and scarf billowing with the slight breeze "But a thought has just come to me, most fortunately, it seems." He pulled open the back door of the cab and slid into the far side. "South Kensington." He directed. John got comfortable as the car got back on the street.

"What's in South Kensington?" John asked, fumbling with his seat belt.

"A woman who owes me a favour."

The cab ride was not long, and the trendy restaurant Sherlock directed them to was again, not what he was expecting. But then, Sherlock knew a lot of people. For very odd reasons. Despite the sign clearly indicating closed on the door, Sherlock waltzed in like he owned the place.

"I-I think it's closed." John pointed at the sign, to no avail. With a sigh, John just followed Sherlock into the restaurant that he absolutely wasn't dressed for. By now he should've gotten used to Sherlock's unpredictable moves. But then again, he probably never would. As he slowly followed his friend, John had a thorough look through the restaurant, trying to imitate Sherlock's deducing stares. All he could see however was that this was a tasteful, relatively expensive place that served international cuisine. It didn't tell him anything about why they were here at all, so he had no choice but to wait and see what was coming next. Or he could ask. There was a slight chance that Sherlock might actually answer.

"What're we doing here? I suppose we won't be eating, it's..._closed_."

"Sherlock Holmes..." A woman's voice announced from above, both men peered towards the balcony of the second floor. "I never expected you to take me up on it. Leave it to you to crash the night of the Awards Reception. Cheeky bugger. And who's this?" An attractive brunette leaned on the railing above them, dressed skillfully in a simple black dress with a stunning silhouette and an unassuming string of pearls dripping from one wrist. Sherlock's eyes glinted up at her, as if he delighted in being untimely.

"This is John. He insisted that we 'go out.' I immediately thought of your very kind offer."

John was not feeling comfortable but half-heartedly lifted his hand and offered a meek hello. How did Sherlock know this person? The woman was gorgeous. So the matter of her connection to Sherlock was even more pressing. Smiling at her as she descended the spiral staircase connecting the two levels, John whispered through gritted teeth into Sherlock's direction:

"_This_ woman owes you a favour?"

_to be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

**chapter rating: pg13  
word count: 2400**

summary: John isn't prepared for Sherlock's sudden dinner plans, but decides to take advantage of a chatty Sherlock.

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**Chapter II - Concerning Habits**

"This woman owes you a favour?"

Sherlock, of course, didn't answer him. This woman though, seemed to be quite familiar with him.

"Well, you did say you were often inconvenient. I'm sure I can find a room to put aside for..." the woman smiled, sizing John up quickly, "The two of you. I'll have Abbey look after you, and I'll have Anatole send out a selection from the menu. If you trust me to look after your dinner, that is." Sherlock gave a short chuckle.

"You do claim to have expertise, and there is evidence that supports that." He conceded and she hummed in consideration, and seemed to be satisfied as she turned to lead them into the back of the restaurant. She pushed open a large glass and iron wrought door to reveal a good sized private room.

"Make yourselves at home, I hope you don't mind if I return to my arrangements...So much to do." She grinned. "Lovely to meet you John." They heard her chuckle lightly as she turned on her heel to return to the main dining room. As she left, Sherlock draped his jacket over the back of a chair as he started to indeed make himself at home, reading the question John was about to ask all over his face.

"That, John, is Natasha Betton. I may have had a hand in securing her a rather important position that gave her the opportunity to become one of London's most successful restauranteurs."

"Do I want to know how you helped her?" John asked, taking off his jacket and following Sherlock's example. That woman seemed classy; apparently she was rich too, and her attitude reminded John of The Woman.

"Probably not. It was not my intention to do so, of course, but rather in reaction to exposing her rather corrupt and manipulative management. However, she does seem grateful, doesn't she?" Sherlock paced the room slowly and methodically, taking in the decor, seeing connections only discernible to him. He picked at the carved end of the back of a chair. "Is this what you had in mind, by the way?"

"I'm not sure," John confessed, having a long look through the room. It was an exclusive and expensive restaurant. Hopefully Sherlock didn't expect him to pay for this... With a sigh John relaxed back in his chair. He replayed meeting Natasha, was there anything else he could deduce from what he had seen? Anything that would tell him more about this woman and Sherlock? There weren't many women in his roommate's life, apart from Mrs. Hudson... Natasha Betton. Was it just him or had she been flirting with Sherlock? A deep frown appeared on John's forehead. He stiffened, suddenly.

"Wait, why was that woman chuckling at us? She doesn't think that we...does she?" Agitated, John looked towards his friend.

Sherlock didn't find it necessary to answer the question, suppressing a laugh himself. John's conclusion was cut short however, as Abbey (presumably) entered with drinks.

"I've heard you have a rather discerning palette, Mister Holmes. And may be familiar with our bourbon." Abbey smiled confidently as she looked at both of them, and from the quirk of her eyebrow as she looked between the two of them she seemed to have the same idea about them as her boss. "I can mix you anything else you'd like, in addition." She set down their drinks, along with a small decanter. John threw a flustered look at her and then to Sherlock, then he turned back to her, gesturing.

"Thank you, but we're not together. I mean we're here, together but we're not-" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "We're not a couple." How many times did he have to explain that now? John didn't know. And he still hadn't been able to establish a routine to it and clear up that mistake casually and smoothly. He was still stuttering like a bloody school boy! And the waitress even didn't look like she believed one word!

"So...no other drinks?" Abbey looked half amused, and half worried. Sherlock shook his head.

"This will be fine Abbey." It wasn't until she had left again that Sherlock turned back to face John. "You have this habit, John. Did you know?"

"What? What habit?" John snapped. Why wasn't Sherlock bothered by that? Why was it always him who had to clear things up? John decided that he needed that bourbon now, desperately, and pulled himself the bottom of a glass that he emptied in one go. Sherlock's mouth twisted as he tried to keep from grinning. He reached over to pour John another drink.

"You're so concerned about what people think of you. It's almost endearing." He raised his own glass to his lips.

"Everyone except you cares about what other people think about them." John emptied that second glass, too, but gradually he relaxed. He just hoped the waitress had been far away enough to not hear Sherlock call him 'endearing'...which wouldn't much help his case. The glass still in hand, John furrowed his brow. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"If by 'it' you mean: other people's assumptions of the details of our relationship, of course it doesn't bother me. It bothers you, however." He sat back into his chair, his glass held aloft as he read John easily. "Why? You yourself are not homophobic, as you have both explained to me as well as demonstrated. You also have no trouble finding yourself women to whom you temporarily attach yourself. Shouldn't that be satisfactory?"

"It's not about being homophobic. If you were a woman and people assumed we were together I'd still try to correct them," John replied, taking another sip. The bourbon was expensive, he could tell, even though he didn't often drink it. "Because we are not together." He paused. "As a couple."

"And that bothers you to think about?" Sherlock challenged, taking another sip as he kept his expression blank.

"Yes, of course it does!" John rolled his eyes and plunked his glass back onto the table. "You're always complaining about people being stupid and overlooking the 'most obvious' clues and you made it your goal to expose the truth, help the police-how is this any different? I'm just telling people the truth."

"By yelling at them when they take your drink order?" Sherlock narrowed his gaze at John. "Ineffective."

"But she was looking at us," John pointed out and crossed his arms over his chest. He shook his head, uncertain why they were discussing this.

"John listen to yourself, you sound ridiculous." Sherlock finished his drink, considering the empty glass for a moment, eyes narrowed at the thin golden line coalescing at the bottom of the glass. He smiled to himself, before returning his focus to John. "I find it quite useful, people's wrong assumptions. Otherwise I would be forced to deal with people like Natasha Betton viewing me as 'attainable'. Imagine." He shook his head and poured himself another drink. Then Abbey was back, with a tray of plates, glasses and another bottle: the wine pairing for the course.

"Anatole wishes to send his kindest regards from the kitchen, and an appetizer of sea scallops, served with a gingered pea puree and cilantro. The wine is the Chateauneuf-du-Pape from Chateau de Beaucaste." She placed a large plate in between John and Sherlock, both portions arranged artfully on the platter. Sherlock looked over at John, his eyebrow quirked, as if daring John to make a fuss about having to share a plate with him as well. "Enjoy, gentlemen." Abbey smiled and excused herself from the room again.

"Fine. I give up. Bon appétit." Shrugging in defeat, John emptied his glass and shifted on his chair to get ready to eat, but then he hesitated. "How do you eat this?" Usually John preferred less complicated food. Inwardly he wondered if he should regret going out with Sherlock. At least his friend seemed to have fun, judging from his amused smile.

Sherlock, without looking at John (for that probably would have felt completely condescending), picked up the center scallop between his fingers, balanced it perfectly a moment to spill a spoonful of the puree on it's top, then popped the thing in its entirety into his mouth. Then he looked at John, a fastidious charm in his expression as he savoured the morsel.

With a sigh, John followed Sherlock's example. He was very skeptical about the food at first, but once he managed to get the pea puree adorned scallop in his mouth he took a moment to reconsider.

"It's good," he assessed, pouring some wine into his glass to follow it. Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

"A connoisseur like Anatole." He pushed his glass across the table to join John's. "Understands the science of the palette to stimulate responses in the brain. Plates are designed top to bottom with an ultimate goal in mind to create a sense of togetherness of the experience of eating." He lifted his wineglass (now full, thanks to John) and peered through it for a moment before he lowered it to his nose and breathed in deeply. "A combination of tastes, smells and visual details meant to cause satisfaction and feelings of euphoria through chemical release in the pleasure centers of the brain." He took a sip of the wine. Swallowed. "So yes, it is good."

"That's what I said." John smiled, chewing his luxury food. "So, what's so bad about flirting with-what's her name-that waitress woman. Maybe a girlfriend would do you good." Sherlock was in a good mood and maybe John could pry some information from him. Usually Sherlock just blocked any of John's attempts to find out about former relationships. Or he completely ignored John's questions. In fact, John worried that he might do just that as Sherlock reached for another scallop.

"John, remember when I said I didn't have girlfriends?" He asked, spooning puree meticulously. "That meant I don't have girlfriends. Literally, metaphorically," He paused as he considered, "Sexually. Any questions?"

"Actually...yes. Hundreds." John emptied his glass and reached in for his second scallop as well. "Why not? Did you ever try that? You might like it. It would help resolve some tension," he gesticulated with the scallop before he popped it in his mouth. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he watched John, puzzled.

"I don't like women, John." He looked unsure why he had to explain something that really ought to be so clear.

"But how do you know if you never tried? And you did like The Woman, don't tell me you didn't. I know you still keep her phone."

Sherlock's jaw tightened for a moment, but then he chose not to ignore it, or deny it-like he was wont to do when asked about personal details. Which was a new thing, and John admirably took it in stride.

"She was...an opposite of me John. It would have been foolish to sacrifice so many things of importance to spend a single night with her. An intriguing folly, at its best, and at its worst," He paused, as if he could see a list of things he considered in the 'worst' situation, "Completely catastrophic." He looked back at John as he exhaled (clearing the screen, John thought). "I have discovered no other interest towards women."

"How about men then?" John asked carefully. They had had a similar conversation the second night after they'd met, but John had barely known Sherlock then and the discussion had taken an awkward turn. It was just very hard for John to comprehend that someone could live his life entirely without craving human contact in that way.

"It's more likely." Sherlock admitted, after a long pause and finally popped his scallop in his mouth. He wiped his fingertips on his napkin as he chewed quickly to resume. "Though that does not say much, statistically. I find a high percentage of males entirely dull as well." Sherlock looked back up when John choked and began to cough. John reached for his wine glass and took a large sip and was finally able to speak again.

"It's more likely? So you don't...know?"

Sherlock tilted his head as he tried to discern what John's expression meant.

"Don't know what? If I am gay? What would it mean if I bore such a label? I have one friend. Do you think it's likely that I would be able to sustain a relationship with a 'boyfriend' as well?" He paused for a moment, as if expecting John to laugh, "It's preposterous. People generally stay away for a reason, John. And that reason is that I just don't like people." He lifted his glass and finished it.

"Maybe you're asexual," John offered. He finished eating and wiped his fingers and mouth with his napkin. There was a strange (but not bad) feeling in his chest that had grown since Sherlock had attested to being uninterested in women. He had become conscious of it under Sherlock's assessing gaze though. John had learned that sometimes, Sherlock needed to stare at him to study his expression-but it didn't always mean it was comfortable. This, for some odd reason, was. Due to Sherlock sharing something about himself in conversation, possibly.

"Perhaps." Sherlock acquiesced after a moment, but he didn't sound completely convinced of it. "But I don't agree with certain definitions of that. I wouldn't describe myself as one disinterested in sex as a concept. No, sex is fascinating. Chemically. It's staggering how we are driven as a species to derive pleasure from copulation beyond the needs to breed simply for the naturally-produced euphoria. The power of that John. I repeat, staggering."

"Staggering indeed. Did you... I mean, have you actually experienced any of that?" John asked, slightly flustered and trying to hide it by covering his mouth with his fingers, hoping he looked professionally interested. Like a doctor. Not like a too-curious friend.

Abbey chose that moment to come back in with a second course, damn her. She placed her tray down on the edge of the table.

"Enjoying yourselves?" She smiled, and Sherlock mirrored it, saving John from having to do anything but continue to hide behind his fingers.

"Anatole's clam chowder, to follow the seafood theme," She chatted pleasantly as she served the dishes, "Paired with the 2007 Meursault Les Tesson." She paused, as if hoping they would say something, then, with the grace only a waiter could have left the room again after realizing she had interrupted their conversation. Sherlock watched her leave, then turned back to John. He seemed amused.

"Are you asking me if I am a virgin, John?"****

_...to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Enjoy the next chapter ^^**

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Chapter III

"Are you asking me if I am a virgin John?"

"What-no. No, I don't-I mean, how should I know, I never assumed-well, actually I did-but as I said, I don't know." John quickly reached for the wine, filled another glass and downed it. If this continued, he'd be drunk before the main course. "Even if you were, that's totally fine, but I didn't say that you are."

Sherlock watched John's flustered state for a moment before continuing, thoughtfully taking a pull from his wineglass as well.

"Physiologically, I am not," Sherlock picked up his spoon, stirred the thick chowder to display the texture, "And before you ask me how it is possible to have had sex and not know whether or not I am gay, I ask you to first remember my dislike of such sexual labels." He lifted his spoon, leveling it as he blew across it. "And besides, I don't remember." His tone was much more clipped and he scrutinized the raised spoonful. John's continued silence seemed to unsettle him, so he continued, "It was in the midst of a heroin high, and the only reason I knew was the condom was still on." Now it was clear Sherlock was avoiding John's eyes. The rim of the wineglass was very intriguing at the moment. "Well, a condom was still on."

John had been wise to not hurry to indulge in the soup. As it was, he was having a hard enough time controlling an outburst. However, his friend had finally decided to open up to him and share that experience, so John did his best to not judge him. Instead he adopted a neutral expression, cleared his throat and clung to his wine glass.

"...I see. Must have been rough times."

"Yes, one could say that." Sherlock agreed, then being the first of them to try the soup. He took a moment to taste, then swallow. His gaze moved over the silverware. "Which is why I no longer use heroin. Because it turns out…" He paused, "It was very rough." He flicked his attention upwards again, as if the just realized he'd been avoiding John's eyes. "Try the soup John. It's also good."

"Good choice," John nodded, quickly taking a spoonful of his soup so he didn't have to look at Sherlock. Here he was again, feeling awkward. The soup was good. But not nearly as interesting as Sherlock's story, and even though John knew he'd regret it he had to take advantage of Sherlock being so talkative-it would be a crime not to. "So beyond that...nothing?" He briefly looked up from his soup without lifting his head.

It looked like Sherlock was justifying whether to continue. Which meant that of course there was more. Sherlock took a deep breath in preparation:

"There have been both experiments and observations previous to and since that experience, though none would completely satisfy the full definition of sex. Because I initially knew so little of the act, due to the lack of personal experience, I had to negotiate ways to gather research from other sources as well. It factors into many investigations-and discrepancies of my youth caused me to be ignorant of basic physical mechanics of it." He explained, watching and then consuming the remaining wine in his glass. He poured himself another without hesitation.

"... I... see." It was more of a question than a statement. John tried to look as if he knew exactly what Sherlock meant though. If it looked as though he couldn't follow then Sherlock would get bored and stop talking to him. Which might not be the worst thing... "What exactly do you mean when you say 'basic physical mechanics?'" John had seen that look before. It was the look Sherlock got every time the topic of the solar system was brought up.

"Other than rudimentary knowledge about the act taught at Brompton Academy, I did not know…" he paused, trying to find the least embarrassing words to explain. "What entrance was used, nor what to expect it to look like."

"Understandably so." John had now switched to wine entirely, refilling Sherlock's empty glass as well. He felt pleasantly dizzy and that was probably the alcohol. "But during your... observations and experiments... didn't you feel anything? Like, perhaps excitement?" Sherlock's brow furrowed momentarily.

"Oh, you mean, as in voyeurism. Being aroused in the state of non-participation. No. Pornography does nothing for me. It was merely to gain information."

"So... you never get excited. Ever?" John was not a regular consumer of pornography, but he'd obviously seen some before, especially when he'd been younger. And maybe every once and a while for...urges, that he had to satisfy every now and then.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, the first sign of getting defensive.

"I don't keep keep a schedule to track my arousal, John." He said with a pout, just as Abbey walked in the door again. If she heard it, her tray and the arrival of the main course masked it well.

"Is everything to your liking so far?" She smiled, not making direct eye contact.

"Fine, everything's fine," John hurriedly assured. He just wanted her to leave. But before that... "Can you bring another bottle please? Of something stronger, if you have it."

"More bourbon, perhaps?" She nodded, "I'll let you two tuck in." She cleared the empty dishes quickly and without explaining their main course. John was relieved. Sherlock unfolded his napkin from underneath his silverware, unfazed. After she left John relaxed back on his chair.

"I didn't ask about keeping track. I was just wondering if you ever got aroused... in general."

"Well of course. It's a natural reaction to certain stimuli, why would that matter?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He often got sulky when defensive too, and now John would have to work harder to keep him from closing off again.

"It matters because it means that you are not asexual," John concluded, his speech slightly slurred. "Also if you determine which stimuli cause your arousal you know what attracts you..." Sherlock was starting to get difficult, so John smiled at him to keep him amused. This started to seem like a bit of a therapy session, though. As brilliant as Sherlock was when it came to analyzing other people as slow and blind he seemed when it came to his own needs sometimes...The appearance of Sherlock's blank-mask meant that he was considering very precisely what John said. Didn't want John to see.

"And how would that help? What am I supposed to do with that information?" He challenged.

"Well...you might have come across that bit of information during your studies, but...sexual activities release endorphins," John pointed out slowly, searching Sherlock's face whether his message got across. Sherlock's gaze narrowed and flicked between both of John's eyes, his expression revealing nothing.

"I am aware of that fact, thank you John." He paused, as if waiting for John to continue, and continue John did, but not before taking a deep breath and puffing out his cheeks, his forehead wrinkled in despair.

"Since we established the fact that you are, technically and physically, capable of participating in sexually motivated...activities you might find that if you decide to engage in these activities you'll experience the release of endorphins as well..." Sherlock's strained expression wasn't very encouraging, thus John just gave up and shrugged "It's fun." before he emptied his full wine glass in one go. Sherlock carefully catalogued each expression John made.

"I've made it clear that a sexual partner is out of the question-for numerous reasons-so what would your advice be?" His eyebrows drew together ever so slightly-not in a pout, which appeared a moment later to hide it, but probably because he really wanted to know.

For a moment John just wordlessly stared at his friend. When he realized that Sherlock was completely serious he just as refilled his wine glass with the last few ounces of the bourbon. Then he took a large sip, clung to his glass and leaned over the table. Yes, perhaps now he'd be drunk enough to think giving The Talk to the world's most brilliant man was a good idea.

"You've got two functioning hands."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I am aware of the concept of wanking, John." He folded his arms after pushing his plate away petulantly. "I have also concluded that it is not a reliable method of…release." A touch of colour lifted on his cheek, and John wasn't sure if it was because Sherlock was angry at being assumed naive of something, or whether he'd just said wanking. Sherlock huffed and looked away at the wall.

"Not a reliable method of release...?" John echoed with an uncertain frown. "What's the problem?... Before you answer just let me get this straight: Are we talking theory here.. or did you actually...?" John felt a major headache coming on.

"Yes, of course I've wanked before!" Sherlock raised his voice over John's questions, looking defensive. The quiet that followed contained just enough murmur to make them realize they may have been overheard. Sherlock breathed in, considered. He continued much more calmly, his voice clipping the syllables precisely. "I did not have much success in it. In that I rarely derived any large measure of enjoyment from it. I found it rather boring and tedious, and generally, that is considered to have a rather negative effect on the act itself."

"Maybe...you weren't relaxed enough." John said, his voice lowered and slurred. "Don't try to see it as one of your experiments. Just... I don't know. Make yourself comfortable, try not to analyze what you do and...just do it." If anyone had told him he was going to get drunk with Sherlock and discuss how to masturbate, John would have laughed in their face. And yet it didn't feel as awkward as it should have.

"Is that what you do?" Sherlock's brow crinkled minutely as his focus retreated inwards for a moment. He was cross-checking again, another thing John had gotten used to. It was a much more disjointed way to have a conversation than anything 'normal.' John thought he liked it. It was a relatively short pause, as Sherlock took a quick breath and continued, "What do you think about, or rather, what is the motivation behind it?"

"You can think about whatever you like," John said, blinking lazily. "Whatever you find attractive. There's something you find attractive, right?" Sherlock huffed at John's lack of specificity in the answer, but seemed determined.

"Yes." He answered impatiently, hoping John had more to offer.

"Well then, it's really no big deal. If you feel a certain... urge or desire, you make sure to get some privacy and then you relax, think about something that attracts you and well... wank."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, as if constructing a model of the scenario in his mind. He didn't speak for long moment.

"John, you make things sound so simple." His tone did not make it a compliment, and he stood, his flatware clinking at the movement. His attention was inward again, even as he dropped a large note on the table, "Stay, and try the dessert. It's what Anatole is known for, and before you do something as obvious as worry, the bill is covered." It was more than John usually got as he unfurled his great coat and swept through the door.

tbc?


	4. Chapter 4

**Enjoy the next chapter ^^**

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**Chapter IV**

John didn't have a chance to protest as Sherlock abruptly _(and rudely)_ left, but he wasn't really surprised. It was one of Sherlock's many odd (_and annoying_) habits. With a mental shrug, John finished his glass and tried to stand and follow Sherlock out, but found that he wasn't very stable on his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned on the table, trying to focus his vision.

"Uh, hello?"

Abbey wasn't far out of the room (and had probably heard the most awkward phrases of their conversation), and got John back to balance quickly. She seemed quite practiced dealing with inebriated customers, for the next thing John realized, he was propped up with a steaming cup of rich black coffee, and an ironically thin slice of Anatole's famous cheesecake. Just sobering enough to get to a cab. Natasha walked him out herself, a hand on his shoulder.

"It really was lovely meeting you John. Sherlock seems like a lot to handle…and you seem quite good at it. He looks happier than when I met him." She opened the back door of the cab for John, held it as he climbed inside. "I doubt he's a very easy man to make happy."

"You have no idea," John grunted, feeling a bit miserable-this time he didn't bother to point out that they were just friends. Last minute he remembered his manners and thanked her for dinner, before he gave the driver his address. The cab ride back to Baker Street was a bit of a blur, but John opened his window a bit and the fresh air helped him clear his head a bit. When he stumbled up the stairs to his room though, he found that he was still quite drunk, though. He was a bit surprised to find Sherlock in the sitting room of their shared flat.

"What you doing here?" he asked, while trying to peel out of his jacket.

Sherlock was sitting with John's laptop balanced on his knee, cross-legged on the chesterfield.

"Research." His fingers danced along the keyboard with a flurry, before he narrowed his gaze at the screen again.

"What are you researching?" John flopped down next to him, squinting at Sherlock but not expecting an answer. Sherlock seemed immersed in his task and it was surprising that he had even bothered to answer John's first question. Naked, entwining forms on the screen, though silenced, answered for him instead.

John squinted at the screen and had he been sober his jaw would have dropped and he'd have excused himself to go to sleep-but he was bloody wasted and he really didn't want to tackle more stairs _quite _yet. He watched Sherlock's brow drew together as he refined his search parameters again, flicking between several windows and tabs of pornography.

"Found anything interesting?" John inquired and prepared for a second attempt to get out of his jacket. Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"There is a gross amount of uninteresting pornography on the internet. Even in your own search history. Really, John, don't be boring," Sherlock reminded John as most of his focus stayed on the screen, pulling up a few windows of interest, "But I have narrowed down a few intriguing options." He gestured to the screen, "The fact that I don't care for any of these people still remains, so why would I become aroused at any of this, save for perhaps physical references in a contrived circumstance..." His brow furrowed again, and he sounded frustrated. He clicked the trackpad harder.

"My... my own history?" The uncooperative jacket wasn't all that interesting anymore. "Excuse _my_ sexual f-fantasies for not being more exciting and up to _your_ expectations," John pouted, because there was just no use in trying to scold Sherlock about ignoring personal boundaries. "Why don't you try to find your own porn." He sulked angrily, still stuck in the arms of his jacket. Sherlock chose not to hear him, and had enlarged a player where two girls were entwined on a bed. It was from John's browser history.

"This, for example," He unpaused the player, and unmuted the sound to unleash the one girl's orgasmic wail. He let it play for a few moments. "is one of the few real orgasms in your collection, and probably the only intriguing moment in the lot. Easily distinguishable-" He paused the video again, the girl's fingers clutched in her lover's hair, "By the unfocused gaze, the tension release here, here and here in her face and neck," he pointed to the spots on the screen indicative, "and the flush of blood along her cheeks and shoulders, especially." He opened another window, determined to prove a point. "It's the exact same expression here," He pointed this time to a man being bent over a desk, panting heavily as a man with his face out of frame thrust into him from behind. "It's as if they forget they're being filmed for that moment." He sounded as if he found the phenomenon both mystifying and amusing.

"Turn that off!" John grabbed the laptop and shut it with a fair amount of force. He jumped up from the couch and took his computer to the kitchen, out of reach. "I told you to stop analyzing! It's not that hard!" His gaze wandered back to Sherlock, then it turned contemplative for a few seconds-and finally determined. "Right. Shut your eyes."

Sherlock looked startled; yes, that was it, but after a moment to a raise an eyebrow, he closed his eyes.

"Right." John repeated, huffed heavily and walked behind Sherlock. He brought his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and he started to knead them. It was a bit clumsy, but John was a great masseur, a fact his former girlfriends had never tired to point out (and occasionally abused,) "Don't think about anything. Just sit there. Relax." John heard Sherlock sigh, and even though it was out of exasperation (and a hint of doubt), it was a start, because even as he breathed out, a bit of tension slipped from his shoulders.

"It's impossible not to think about anything, John." He pointed out, but it was out of habit rather than reproach.

"Shut up," John reprimanded, which caused Sherlock's mouth to twitch in a tiny grin, and he pressed a bit harder down on the muscles than was necessary. Now he was a bit at a loss of how to proceed but he decided to make it up as he went. It just seemed like a good idea. To a drunk person. "There's nothing on your mind. No case, no murder, no riddles, no mutilated bodies-nothing. Watch the black dots behind your eyelids."

"Entoptic phenomenon..." Sherlock muttered, and must have worked hard to not say anything else on the topic.

"Black dots," John emphasized, keeping up with his massage. Sherlock was awfully tense, there were so many knots in his shoulders and neck...all those tight shirts probably. "Follow the dots with your eye. Watch them drift..." John closed his eyes and followed his own advice. He always found this method to be very relaxing, so maybe Sherlock would too. "Are you relaxed?"

"No," Sherlock said, and John suspected that would be it then, but instead he tilted his neck slightly forward, "But I am starting to. Don't stop."

"All right." That was at least something. John was being optimistic and doubled his efforts. "Stop focusing on the dots and let your gaze drift. Does something appear out of the darkness? Shapes? Images? Maybe...sounds or a feeling?"

"Don't be ridiculous John." Sherlock's shoulders shifted under John's hands, but Sherlock remained seated. With his eyes closed, John's voice had nuances that he didn't usually hear, and he could discern the drunken lilt from the genuine care in his tone. He could have launched into the several theories behind the shifting shapes one saw with closed eyes, but it had suddenly become more important to just keep John talking. "What would it feel like if I were to feel something?"

"Well...you'd feel...warm." John furrowed his brows, tilting his head as if listening to something, as his fingers dug into the sore muscles languidly. Sherlock leaned into the rhythmic squeezes of John's hands. The slow circular pattern was different from before, and Sherlock felt himself be pulled back into the cushion of the sofa, and closer to John. His back relaxed and he tilted his head to give John access to the stiff muscles in his neck. John continued:

"You'd start to feel relaxed, but maybe a bit...restless at the same time." John paused a moment, but Sherlock for once seemed content to listen, so he sought the best ways to describe what _arousal_ felt like, "A feeling of excitement would start to grow in your abdomen. Your pulse would quicken, your breathing accelerate... You might start to perspire."

Sherlock breathed in deep, and felt a jolt when he realized John breathed with him. His lips parted with a surprised exhale, and a feeling did start to grow in his abdomen, his pulse quickened.

"And if it continued...?" His voice was affected, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to correct it. John's hands squeezed his trapezius muscles to the brink of pain, before pressing insistently upwards, along the back of his neck. Sherlock's head dropped forward to his chest, giving John more access. John seemed seemed to be encouraged by Sherlock's passivity.

"Your skin might start to tingle pleasantly as the image in your head becomes clearer. Your senses may become heightened, especially what you feel." Sherlock's breath caught as he listened to John describe what his body was doing. It was ridiculous and arousing that he knew, and Sherlock was quickly losing the ability to explain it.

"You might feel a little dizzy, and...get an erection." John explained, trying to remain clinical sounding at least. Sherlock's hand moved to the top of his thigh as his hips lifted a little at John's words. John failed to notice his own trousers getting a little tight as he tried to concentrate solely on Sherlock's stiff shoulders.

"Usually you would show other signs of excitement, like the hardening of...nipples." The pause was almost nonexistent and John wouldn't have been caught dead saying the word 'nipples' had he not been drunk. It drew the world in to an intimate level, and Sherlock swallowed thickly.

"That's a good time to start touching yourself-wherever you like. The most intense experience will spring from touching your erection." John's words were practically permission, and Sherlock dared to rub at his now insistent erection through his trousers.

"Depending on what feels good for you, you can grab it harder, rub it... Sometimes it will cause you to moan-or breathe heavier..."

Sherlock wasn't expecting the intense sensation of it, and bit his bottom lip, his hips pressing up harder as he listened to John. He panted, still silent so he wouldn't miss a single sound. His cheeks were flushed furiously, and he felt a tightness in his abdomen as John dug his fingers hard into his shoulders, and the pressure and friction against his cock built so fast, he wasn't able to bite back the moan that escaped his lips as he tilted his head against John's wrist.

And then he was coming, with John's hands on his shoulders and his pajama bottoms still on, and for a moment, he didn't think anything, and the first thing he thought when he could again that he would have to apologize to John for getting that wrong.

Sherlock's moan made John go weak in the knees. A shudder ran down his spine and he thought that it was probably the sexiest sound he had ever heard-before a cold dowse of reality hit him. Opening his eyes, John's hands stilled, and he felt a bit as if he had just woken from a dream. Also, he was shamefully aware of his own erection that poked against the back of the sofa. Retracting his hands, he cleared his throat.

"Well, something like that." Only then did he realize what had just happened.

Sherlock didn't look relaxed anymore, and at the removal of John's hands, had stiffened up tighter than before. There was a moment's pause, perhaps considering what to acknowledge, perhaps waiting for John to say something.

Before he could, Sherlock decided to retreat to safety. With a speed that seemed previously improbable, Sherlock was up, off the sofa and forcibly slamming the door to his room shut. They weren't going to talk about it, apparently.

"Bugger!" John cursed under his breath, raising a hand to his forehead. He didn't feel drunk anymore, at all. This had sobered him up quite effectively. For a moment he contemplated whether he should try to talk to Sherlock. He walked to Sherlock's door uncertainly, attempted to knock, then turned to go to his own room. Eventually he paced back down the stairs and knocked briskly.

"Sherlock?" he asked, biting his lip and straining his ears to hear any sounds from within. "Are you-are you all right?"

"Go away John, I'm thinking." The reply was non-negotiable, and the door was locked when John tried the handle. John rubbed a hand over his mouth, deciding whether he should leave or not but then decided on the former.

"All right... Well then, good night." He paused, "I'm sorry," he added, feeling guilty. He waited for a reply but when none came, John went to his own room. Ignoring his own erection he lay down but it took him a long time until he could finally fall asleep.

tbc?

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**Feedback is very much appreciated! Thank you (^_^)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

Morning found John making tea in the kitchen, feeling restless and remorseful. Sherlock's room was still locked, meaning he was still in there or had spent too much effort making it appear he was, so John had decided he'd wait him out, and stood vigil while he made himself breakfast. His head was pounding, and he was regretting (for several reasons) having drank so much the night before. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's television set playing her dailies as he set himself down to the paper and a crumpet. He also heard the knock on the door, and Detective Lestrade's distinctive tones as Mrs. Hudson let him in. He wasn't the only one, Sherlock's door opened briskly to admit him into the sitting room, pajama clad and smarmy; otherwise unruffled.

"Good of you to wait until a 'decent' hour, Inspector, though unnecessary. You should have called right away, you've wasted hours trying to let your team handle things." He said haughtily, appearing (as always) unsurprised at Lestrade's presence.

Lestrade professionally ignored the insult as John got up from the table and regarded him with a bit a cold look. There went his opportunity to talk this through with Sherlock... Not that John was too keen on it, but they lived together. They had to sort this out sooner or later and John wanted to get it over with. Sherlock seemed to have other plans, however.

"We got a case," Lestrade announced superfluously. "I might need your advice."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Inspector, as if judging whether or not Lestrade was being sarcastic or purposefully obtuse. It took him a moment before his attention snapped elsewhere, and he breezed by Lestrade, his housecoat tie trailing along the floor after him.

"Afraid I can't. Terribly busy."

"Wha-? Come on..." Lestrade lifted his hands in a gesture that was half desperate, half exasperated. He hated it when Sherlock Holmes went all _diva_ on him... "It's a locked room murder." He hoped that would tweak Sherlock's curiosity, but to his disappointment, Sherlock started rattling beakers and test tubes in the kitchen, as if he hadn't heard. Lestrade turned to John and made a pitiable expression. John gave him only a small shake of his head. "James Leed, computer programmer found dead in his home office. By a bloody _crossbow_ bolt. No signs of entry or struggle, and no murder weapon." He tried again, dangling pieces of information like bait. Still nothing from the kitchen. "Sherlock." Lestrade huffed. Sherlock finally turned around.

"I said I'm busy Lestrade. Take John, if you really feel shamefully inept. I'm sure he has nothing better to do today." He snapped, and from the fridge brought out a misshapen package, suspiciously leaking a yellow pus-like substance from the brown paper wrapping.

"You know what? Let's go." John grabbed the Detective Inspector by the arm and forcefully walked him out the door with annoyed strides. With Sherlock being an insulting idiot like this he didn't want to stay anywhere near him. Also, he might explode in Sherlock's face, and then Sherlock would be all witty and superior which would only frustrate John more... So it was the best to distract himself. Lestrade allowed himself to be escorted from the flat, and sighed heavily when he slid into the driver's side of his car. He watched John climb in beside him, a determined expression on his face.

"He used to be a lot worse you know. Before you came along, that is." He started the engine and checked the traffic before pulling out. "Though I'm sure that's not much of a comfort to you."

"No. No it isn't." John let his hand fall down on the armrest of the car door, but then he sighed. Actually, it was kind of comforting, in a way. "Sometimes I feel like I'm making it even worse than before," he admitted, looking out the rain speckled window. He avoided looking Lestrade in the eye. Lestrade shook his head with a small laugh. Good on him, it didn't even sound forced.

"Right. Like you believe that. I've wanted to punch his lights out far less often since you've come along. Even if he doesn't get along with everyone at Scotland Yard, he's at least stopped going out of his way to make everyone hate him." He turned a corner, driving a moment in silence. "Thanks, by the way, for coming along. This case has nothing. And I mean it-we haven't found anything. You could...I don't know..." he shrugged, "Extra eyes and opinions are welcome, at this point."

"Will that be all right? I mean, you don't have consultants, usually. And I'm not even Sherlock." John frowned. Why had his stomach done that strange flip at Lestrade's words? John didn't want to think about it, not now. He was here to distract himself from Sherlock.

"You've been to enough crime scenes with him that no one will ask any questions if you show up. Christ…" Lestrade swore at the car that cut him as it performed an illegal turn. His mouth tightened at the infraction, but he let it slide and shook his head. "And maybe you can persuade him to find an interest in it...if he ever stops being such an ass. I won't hold my breath." Lestrade chuckled again, reminding John how nice it was to have someone to talk to who wasn't an antisocial prick. "You mind if I turn on the radio? It'll be another twenty minutes or so. With this traffic."

"No, I don't mind at all." For the rest of the drive they were comfortably silent, listening to the quiet music of the radio. It didn't take John more than a few minutes of watching raindrops rolling down his window before he realized they were heading towards Kensington-the very district where Sherlock had surprised him with dinner the day before. Then of course, he started thinking about what had happened the previous night.

It was some kind of breakthrough on one hand. Sherlock had proven that he wasn't an emotionless robot. That was great. But Sherlock had also had what was arguably his first orgasm from jerking off with him in the room...giving him a shoulder rub, hadn't he? Did that mean that Sherlock thought _he_ was attractive?

Then on the other hand, John could clearly remember (even though he wished he couldn't), that he had been excited, too. But he had been drunk. So did it mean anything? _What_ did it mean? John was at a complete loss and he started to get a headache.

By the time they got to Kensington, the traffic had calmed, and Lestrade finally pulled up to an old stately house, police-taped off. A couple of large vans lined the block, and John could see a few eager young reporters taping segments. Lestrade flashed him a resigned smile and led them from the car. An officer met them at the top of the drive, and Lestrade had a quick conference with the woman before climbing the steps to the front door.

"Watch your step." Lestrade offered before heading inside, and John followed closely. Lestrade led him through the old house to a heavy door, a walled in room with no exterior walls. Lestrade gave him a look that asked you ready? And opened the door. James Leed, a former software programmer, slumped against the wall.

John gave a brief nod at Anderson and Donovan but received an unfriendly eyeroll instead. He was glad they didn't ask where Sherlock was. Having a look through the office, John tried to look beyond the ordinary, obvious. Well, there was the victim, with an arrow sticking out of his chest, leaning up against the wall in a pool of his own blood. He thought a moment.

"The door was locked?" He turned towards Lestrade, pulling out a notebook and a pen.

Lestrade chuckled. "And then some. Metal reinforced door, key and data code . Whole shebang. Apparently, this guy was a big security nut. The wife found him earlier today. She said only she had access other than him." He tutted. "She's in a bit of a state, let me tell you." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "She has an alibi, by the way. The house's security tapes. There's one in every room..." He made a face, implying something distasteful. "_Every_ room, except this one mind. She's on them for the last seventy-two hours. Which is how long he's been here."

"He was in here for three days, dead, and she didn't notice...?" John asked, incredulous. He had never heard of James Leed before. The office looked clinical and meticulous. If anything it told him that the deceased was a control freak.

"Yeah. No missing persons report. Apparently it wasn't unlike him to disappear for a few days at a time." Lestrade cast a look about the room. "The skylight's open, but we've had someone up on the roof, and it's impossible to get in through it. There's a cage system rigged around it that we can't even get open. "Let alone fire a crossbow through." He made another face, this one displeased and puzzled. "Which means that he was shot from in here."

"I see..." John said, but with not much conviction. Locked room cases, they had had a few of them before and John had been puzzled at every single one of them. Sherlock had figured them out more or less effortlessly, and each time John had been majorly impressed. He went back to the corpse and crouched down over it to inspect the wound. "Why a crossbow?" He pondered aloud. Like Sherlock, apparently he also thought best out loud. "I suppose the killer wanted to reduce any noises. Did forensics come up with any finger prints?"Lestrade shook his head.

"Nothing except the victim's." he turned back to face the body. "Have a look around, you know not to touch anything. I dunno." He shook his head. "This was why I was rather hoping Sherlock would be interested before the body was taken away. Leave it to him to see something other than just a dead software programmer in an office." He rolled his eyes. "I have to call the station. I doubt the whole team will be around for much longer...with no evidence to take back, it makes for a quick wrap up." He flipped his phone. "I'll just be a few minutes." He stepped out into the hall, leaving John in the office to try to see if living with Sherlock had worn off on him at all.

John hummed a noncommittal sounds and got up. That arrow was no toy, that much he could tell. It seemed rather expensive and professional, too. He would have to look that up... Also he needed to ask Lestrade about a possible motive. Since the Detective Inspector was busy, John walked about the room, noticing a few photographs of a young woman on the desk.

"Looks nice," he muttered, resisting the urge to pick up a frame. With a sigh he turned, walking over to a marked spot on the carpet. Kneeling down he inspected it, sniffing it and wrinkled his nose. "What's that?"

Lestrade came back a moment later, tucking his phone away.

"Ah, you found the stain." He laughed, watching John straighten himself up from the floor. "Sent it off first thing, as it was the only thing that didn't look like it belonged. Animal feces. Probably just a rat or a big mouse, judging by the size of it. We're still waiting on the final results, but it couldn't be anything else."

"What is that doing here?" John frowned. It seemed out of place, what with everything being extremely clean. "And that woman in the photos, is that the victim's wife?"

"Yeah. Newly weds. Married three months ago." Lestrade folded his arms and drew his brows together, contemplating the clues available to them. "Had some sort of costumed-affair... Married by Darth Vader." a photo collage on the shelf showed the pair as Hans Solo and Princess Leia, holding hands in front of an imposing cloaked figure. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess."

John followed Lestrade's gaze, his eyebrows lifting up. "I suppose..." Clearing his throat, John had another long look through the room, his hands clenching into fists and reopening in a restless manner.

He was uncertain what to do, where to start, whether he got a clue or not. It seemed so easy when Sherlock was doing it, like the man was grabbing a rope and just let it lead a way from one clue to the next until they found the truth. But now all the clues were clattered all over, John wasn't even sure if he got any valuable information or not. What did he have? One thing he could say though was that this case was weird.

"You think... actually, can I talk to the victim's wife for a moment?" John was good at talking to people. Maybe he should stick with that for now.

Lestrade hesitated briefly, then exhaled and nodded, his hands dropping as he led John out of the study. The rest of the house was not as impressive. The rooms were small, to accommodate the large central room of the office. Must have been an add-on John thought, judging by the detailing on the inner wall. The small sitting room was at the back of the house. It was cozy, but airy. The victim's wife was seated in the window nook, staring out the window, a cup of cold tea on the side table. The female officer looked up as they entered the room.

"This is Dr. Watson," Lestrade explained, "He'd like to have a few words with Mrs. Leed, if he could." The officer nodded, then her gaze flicked to John as she left. Lestrade sniffed as he turned, his hands in his pockets as he stood in an easy attention. He'd let John lead this.

"Mrs. Leed, my name's John Watson. I'm sorry for your loss." He put one hand on her shoulder lightly, reassuringly, before he pulled one of the wooden spooled chairs from the table to sit across from her. "How are you feeling?" Even without her replying he could tell that she was pretty devastated. It seemed real to John. But was it? He chose to believe in his instincts rather than applying one of Sherlock's very efficient but also traumatizing and immoral tests. Her focus out the window didn't break, but she breathed a laugh, shaking her head.

"I'm not feeling too good." Her mouth settled back into a downward line. She was a mousy looking thing with big wet eyes and a bit of a weepy nose-which was a rather harrowed shade of pink on its tip. "My name's Charlotte. Charlotte Leed." She spun a finger around the long chain necklace she wore. "But please, just call me Charlotte." Her shoulders shrugged a little, and her brow clenched.

John had seen police officers consoling people hundred times and as a doctor he should be used to it, but he still felt at a loss for words.

"Charlotte... Would you mind telling me what happened? I know you told the police already. But I am more of a private consultant, and I'd like to help with a bit of a different perspective..." She swallowed tightly then nodded.

"James didn't come back here after a meeting on Tuesday-which wasn't strange," She defended, "I always make sure he has an overnight bag packed in his car. I make sure I replace the dryer sheets in his suits so they'll stay fresh." She caught herself. "So they would stay fresh." She swallowed again. "His job sent him away all the time. He sends postcards from everywhere though." She smiled, but only for a second before she caught that too. "But he always rang. In three days, he always rang." She drew a breath, switched her gaze to her hands where she fiddled with her chain again. "So I checked his office. And he... he was _in_ there. And I didn't know." She shook her head, and her face pinched for a moment before she managed another deep breath.

"There is nothing you could have done for him. If it is any consolation, he didn't suffer from it. It was over quickly." John said in a low, comforting voice, summoning a tissue and handing it to her in case she needed it. She accepted it, twisting it around her thumb and index finger. John continued, "You said he went to a meeting. I'm afraid I don't understand... Why would you check his office first? Wouldn't it be more likely that to check with his work, to see whether he went on another trip, or when he went home?"

For the first time, her gaze raised to meet John's, but it flicked away almost as quickly. She squared her shoulders.

"No one was allowed in his office, Dr. Watson. Not even me. Everything of James' work is in that room. He said it was dangerous." Her lip quivered, "He told me...that if he was ever in trouble, I had to get it out of the house. Because it wouldn't be safe."

That still didn't explain why she hadn't called him at work but went straight to his home office-but John let it slide. Apparently that office, or something in the office, was far more important.

"Dangerous? Why was his work dangerous? Did your husband have enemies?" John looked up to Lestrade for just a moment, but he just gave him a shrug and came a bit closer. They both seemed at a loss. Charlotte looked up at John again, held his gaze a little longer.

"You're going to think I'm mad."

tbc?


End file.
